


it's only rock n roll

by zaritarazi



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-12-07 03:41:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18229421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaritarazi/pseuds/zaritarazi
Summary: zari is the frontwoman of the metal band Death Kitten, charlie leads her punk band The Smell. this would be innocuous enough, except that one case of charlie's missing guitar puts the two in uncomfortably close proximity. their rivalry is unneeded, dramatic, and mostly just a lot of pent-up sexual tension, but both are now on a mission to prove who's the better frontwoman- and also argue about who fell for whom first.





	1. Part 1

The issue is that there’s too many punks and not nearly enough space backstage, and Charlie’s really considering calling the whole thing a bust. 

She doesn’t want to sully the name of _The Smell_ with this thing, which is starting to feel pretty damn commercial- But if they _don’t_ perform, that’s lost bookings and the bad kind of bad reputation. There’s badass and then there’s the group nobody wants to deal with. 

No gigs, no band, and no band means Charlie will have to go be… an animal conservationist, or whatever her sister’s doing now. Dolphin whisperer?

She decides to say, with a heavy, sardonic tone, “Oh, for fucks sake.” 

That at least gets her a look from Gilly, a raise of her eyebrow that shows very little concern and is more just a general show of attention.

Charlie looks back at her, rolling her eyes with an overwhelming sense of being over this entire thing already, and Gilly offers a shrug and that’s about it.

“Declan,” Charlie says, a sharp snap of her voice. “Where’s my shit?”

He’s been half-stoned this entire time, which is fine for him, but he looks to his right and then to his left and goes, “Uh, I don’t see your guitar.”

It’s just a perfect storm of absolute shit, all at once. There’s the crowding, there’s the muffled music from the stage (some kind of synth shit), and then, of course, there’s the cherry on top. One of the fucks in this room stole her stuff.

Good news: This will probably end in a fistfight. Bad news: If Charlie can’t find it before she plays, she’s screwed.

“You’re a moron, Dec,” Charlie says, meaning it intensely. With a sigh, she moves off the wall and into the horrible throng of bands.

What’s really grinding her, kind of a moot statement since everything is, but what’s _really_ grinding her is that some asshole thinks they’ve got the gravitas for _her_ guitar. The nerve of that thought alone makes her bite on the tip of her tongue, just to keep from elbowing someone in the head.

It would be more like in the chest area with most people, Charlie’s not exactly tall and she’s never worn a heel in her life and platforms are outrageously expensive and- Well. It’s the spirit of violence that matters.

She catches a glimmer of red from the corner of her eye, the right kind of red, deeper in tone and colder in hue, and that _has_ to be her guitar. 

She turns on her heel towards the sight of it, not so gently shoving aside some a few people in her way for good measure.

“Oi,” Charlie says, the rest of the crowd parting for her on instinct and possibly fear. She gives a nod of her chin, crosses her arms. “Think you’ve got something of mine.”

 

 

It’s infuriating enough that the girl is holding Charlie’s guitar, even moreso that she’s holding it _wrong,_ but there is something about her that is setting off absolute sparklers in Charlie’s chest. Something about her just makes Charlie feel like her whole body is burning up.

It’s both the guitar and her hair, Charlie decides. Long and dark, pieces pulled back behind her head. Entirely pretty and not at all punk rock. Ridiculous.

“Excuse me?” she says, with the raw gall to offer Charlie a once-over, an _assessment,_ like Charlie does not automatically exude an air of authority. Which, she does. “Do I know you?”

“Don’t think you do,” Charlie says, and decides to move in, putting her hand on the body of her guitar. “I don’t make acquaintances with little shits who _steal._ ”

The shock on her face is from getting caught, assumedly, but it turns to anger very quickly, a defensive sort of sneer on her features. “Are you _high?_ ” she asks, like maybe being a little stoned is a bad thing. “What could _you_ have that I would even _want_?”

“That’s cute,” Charlie says, tapping her hands against the body. “You’ve got my guitar.”

“You’re out of your mind,” she says. She takes the neck and shifts the guitar to her side, away from Charlie’s hand. “I literally bought this for myself two years ago.”

“Find that hard to believe,” Charlie says, making a face that’s perhaps a little too mocking. “I’d recognize my own instrument.”

“I don’t think you’d recognize your own face in the mirror, idiot,” she says. 

“Ah,” Charlie says, suddenly lighting up with excitement. “Are you really going to insult me then, princess?”

She tilts her head. There’s too many rings on her ear, Charlie decides. Too many little gold hoops. “Do you go around calling all the girls princess?” she asks. “Or just the ones you get too close to?”

That’s unfair, as she’s definitely moved closer to Charlie as this little spat had gone on. Charlie had been absolutely fine at an arm’s distance. “Just the brats like you, _love._ ” 

She smiles in the way the predicates something more violent, a half-laugh and a slight shake of her head. “I’m not just going to let you get in my face and take my shit.”

They’re practically chest to chest, close enough that Charlie can see the little piece of gum the girl’s been chewing, rolling across her tongue. “If you’re so sure it’s yours,” Charlie says. “Then where’s mine?”

“That’s your problem,” she says.

“I’m really thinking of making it yours,” Charlie says, already feeling that delightful shaking in her fingers.

“Please,” the girl says. She’s already moving to take the strap off her shoulder, hand the instrument to someone else. And Charlie can almost respect her for that. No need to ruin the thing. “Go ahead. Make it my problem, _sweetie._ ”

Charlie balls her hand into a fist and-

 

 

“Okay!” For some reason, the girl has the world’s tallest man in her band. Well, maybe not the tallest, but pretty close. He’s got his hands on both their shoulders, gently moving them apart. “There’s really no need for anyone to get this upset! Aren’t we all here to enjoy the music and have fun?”

Charlie looks at him, and then back to the girl, and then back to him. “Mate, this is punk show.”

“It’s not just _punk,”_ the girl says, which is absolutely an insult.

“Zari,” the guy says, a little exasperated. “Just-“ 

“You seem a little out of place,” Charlie tells him. “Are you lost? Do you just go around preventing perfectly good fistfights?”

“He’s my bassist,” Zari says, waving him off. 

He takes his hand away, but stands there. Not even so much to be intimidating, but just to look concerned. 

“Charming,” Charlie says. “But if he’s not going to let us settle this, then you need to just hand the damn thing back to me. Can’t go on without it.”

“Then go find _yours,_ ” Zari says. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not handing over _my_ stuff to _you?”_

“When are you on?” the bassist asks. “If she’s on before us, I don’t see any issue with her just borrowing it.”

“I can’t borrow what’s already mine,” Charlie says.

“I don’t want her touching my stuff,” Zari says. “She’s going to break the strings or something. I’ve never even seen you play. I don’t even know if you _can._ ”

“Oh, that’s low,” Charlie says. “Even for some low level thrasher like you.”

“Both of you,” the bassist says. “Please just… borrow it. And then give it back, and if you still can’t find your guitar by the end of the night then you uh-“ He pauses. “You can call me?”

“What?” Charlie says. 

“If you don’t find it you can call me and I’ll help you find it,” he says.

Charlie points at him, looking at Zari, “And you’re really sure I’m the high one?”

She gives her bassist a very unhappy frown, taking the guitar back from him and shoving it at Charlie. “He’s just like this,” she says. “I’m going to get that back as soon as you get offstage.”

“Feel free to watch and learn, princess,” Charlie says. “Be good for you to hear what music sounds like.”

The bassist has now tried to essentially wedge himself between them, gingerly offering Charlie a card.

She looks up at him.

“I’m also the manager,” he says. “But Zari’s the leader.”

Charlie takes the card between her thumb and her index finger, glossing over his name (Ray, or whatever), and chuckling to herself. “Death Kitten?” she asks. “How cute.”

“Fuck you,” Zari offers, not even with malice but just as a passing statement.

“You first,” Charlie says. She slings her guitar back over her shoulder, noting that Zari’s got the strap fitted all wrong. “Pleasure doing business with you, _Z._ ” She presses her tongue to the back of her teeth and grins, before she backs away and they can no longer see each other through the crowd.

 

 

(Fucking Zari had the thing tuned all wrong, too. Charlie barely gets it in order before The Smell goes on, and even then, she can’t get that girl out of her head. It makes her feel something as she plays, kind of indescribable but definitely intense, the fact that Zari is standing in the wings and watching her. And Charlie knows she’s there, she caught sight of her from the corner of her eye, and she keeps thinking about it all through her set).

 

 

It’s not Zari that’s got her so amped up, though. It’s the post-performance euphoria she always gets, heart still pounding incessantly in her chest. She’s still overheated from the stage lights, too sweaty for her own good. But it feels as perfect as it always does.

“That was unbearable,” Zari tells her, leaning against the PA table. “Give it back.”

It’s not enough to take Charlie down- If anything, Zari’s scowl just makes her happier, better. “You stood there for the whole thing?” Charlie asks. “Know how to make good music now?”

“Is that a real question?” Zari asks. “Some of us listen to music past 1977. You’re like a cover band without the covers.”

“Mm, I’d have come up with something better if I’d been waiting this whole time, but that’s alright,” Charlie says. “You’ve clearly got to learn to keep up with me.”

“Listen,” Zari says. “I promised Ray I wouldn’t punch you, and if I break that promise, he’s going to get upset. So just give it back and we can both pretend you didn’t just ruin my guitar with whatever _that_ just was.”

Charlie presses her tongue against her cheek, nodding to herself. “Alright,” she says, leaning towards the PA table and picking up a stray marker. PA’s could be so forgetful with their things. 

She easily loops the strap off her shoulder, putting the guitar on the table, one hand holding it down while the other holds the marker. She uncaps it quickly with her teeth, pressing silver tip to paint and spelling out “CHARLIE’S.” 

Zari had been watching her half-frozen with a mix of unmitigated disbelief and horror, but she catches on at the last second, shoving Charlie back with a heartfelt, “What the fuck?!”

The “S” gets smudged by the motion, looking more like a lightning bolt than a possessive. Charlie takes a good moment to reveal in Zari pushing her, the force of her hands and the fury in her glare. “You have a hard time telling what’s yours, clearly,” Charlie says. “Just wanted to help you out.”

This time, Zari is far more ready for a fight- She’s in Charlie’s face in mere moments, just a few pounding heartbeats. The thrill of a fight after a show is enough to send a shiver up Charlie’s spine. And her excitement has nothing to do with Zari’s deep, dark eyes, pupils blown. She’s narrowed Charlie down to her singular focus, the attention lighting sparks between them. 

“I don’t see your bassist,” Charlie says, not breaking Zari’s gaze. Her voice is that low, teasing tone, a faux whisper that predicates a bigger storm. “We could go right now, princess.”

Zari’s breathing comes in and out through her nose, heavy and tight with intent. 

Charlie can’t help noticing these things, thinking that it’s kind of like she and Zari have been fucking. That this is one of two ways she could get Zari to get to this point.

Charlie has always found fistfights to be terribly intimate. “Well?”

Zari’s tongue darts against her lower lip, Charlie studying the motion of it against the blood-red of Zari’s lipstick.

That’s going to get smudged once Charlie knocks some sense in her, but she also imagines it mingled with black smudges, from Charlie kissing Zari on mouth until her lips are a muddled mix of lipstick.

“You,” Zari says, her voice betraying her anger. “Are. Not. Worth. My. Time.”

Charlie gives her a smile at that. “You’re still standing here.”

Zari is going to have to kiss her or hit her. That’s the only motion this kind of energy will allow, something of high velocity and passion.

Zari looks at her lips, and for a second Charlie thinks she knows the answer. 

But then Zari shakes her head, and sucks in a calming breath through her mouth. She takes a step back.

Charlie has never been so offended in her life.

“I said it and I meant it,” Zari says, taking the guitar off the table. “I’m not wasting my energy on you.”

“Zari!” Charlie calls, watching Zari walk out of the wing. “You don’t just- That’s not-“ Charlie curls her upper lip into a snarl, her hands balling into fists. “Bitch!”

She has enough energy stored in her body that she feels like she could lap the building. Ten times, at least. 

Instead she bites her lower lip, nails digging into her palms, and stands there where Zari left her, hoping she’ll find a way to calm down.

 

 

Maybe it’s her stubbornness, but Charlie’s not entirely ready to leave. 

Rationally, she’s been over this gig since she got here, and they’ve played, and she’d sooner eat her own boot than go to any kind of after party. So she should get her bandmates and go.

But she can’t seem to calm the tremors in her hands, the way she still hasn’t come down. She still feels like she’s out of breath, still feels emotion mounting within her. It’s not anger, though. It doesn’t have the same bitter edge, and her urge to find Zari and slam her against the wall is coupled with an urge to do something very different, once Zari is against said wall. 

Her thoughts are littered not with ideas of Zari apologizing, of admitting her fault, but of Zari pressed under Charlie’s weight and begging for… her.

Zari is absolutely enraging and clever and beautiful, and that is not good at all. Charlie absolutely cannot stand her.

Still. The urge to watch Zari perform, using _Charlie’s_ guitar, the need to see what this girl is really about, is overwhelming. So much so that Charlie’s been sulking, sitting on that same PA table, for at least forty five minutes.

She has composed at least 20 songs about how much Zari sucks. She can’t wait to put them to paper. A whole album of songs about Zari. 

And how she’s bad. It’s an album about how Zari is bad.

Charlie awaits the announcement of Death Kitten like she’s the one with stage fright, crossing and uncrossing her legs, shifting her weight, laying out on the table and then sitting back up. It’s impossible to stay still, more impossible to get her thoughts under control.

So she fidgets. And she waits. 

It’s always so _loud_. Charlie believes herself to be someone who revels in the noise, who creates and controls it, but it’s just as loud out there as it is in her head.

She doesn’t even hear that Zari’s on, and so watching her come onstage is a moment of cold shock, the stillness Charlie had been looking for.

She wonders, briefly, if this is what she’d looked like to Zari, who’d been here watching from the same spot. 

It’s a different Zari. She holds herself differently, smiles in a new and exciting way, even her pretty little hairstyle seems less cute and more purposeful, more distinct. Charlie is fixated on her, Zari the _performer,_ holding the guitar with CHARLIE written across it, followed by a lightning bolt.

“Hey,” Zari says, not to Charlie but to the crowd. “We’re Death Kitten and this is-“ She looks down at her guitar for a moment, and her expression softens for a split second- Charlie’s positive it’s a trick of the light. “This is Charlie. She wasn’t Charlie before tonight but… I doubt Charlie’s going to be easy to get rid of. But she plays like nothing I’ve ever heard. So let’s hear it for Charlie!”

There’s the roar of the crowd and then the telltale opening notes of ugh, _metal,_ but Charlie fully, truly cannot move. Charlie’s never going to get the goddamn guitar back, now that Zari’s made a full joke about it, and for a moment Charlie’s sure there are spots in her vision.

She has to go. Now, she has to go.

 

 

She hops off the table and bursts into the backstage area, finding Gilly first and grabbing her by the arm, dragging her for the backdoor.

“What?” Declan says, quickly following behind. “We’re not staying for the afterparty?”

“We’re going,” Charlie says, anger finally bubbling out of her chest. “If I have to deal with these shits a minute longer, I’m going to burn this building down.”

“That could be fun,” Gilly offers. “Charlie?” Normally, Charlie would agree- But she barely even notices they’ve gotten into the car until the night air starts to get to her.

“Charlie,” Gilly says, and it only now dawns on her that Gilly’s been trying to get her attention for what, ten minutes? “Charlie, you’re really starting-“

“I’m fine,” Charlie says. “Never been better.”

“Really?” Gilly says. “Because you’ve been staring into space this whole time.”

“It’s nothing,” Charlie says. “I was going over our performance. You came in late, _again._ ”

That’s enough to shut Gilly up, for now at least, as she settles into the back seat with her arms crossed.

And now Ian feels it’s necessary to pipe in, sticking his head on the back of the front bench. “Hey Charles, not to bother you or shit, but I actually checked the boot before we drove off, and I think I forgot to pack your guitar.”

Charlie considers, since she didn’t get her fight this evening, just pulling Ian out of the car and kicking him to the moon. “You what?”

“Yeah,” he says. “So I hope you didn’t make too much of a fuss about it, no one stole your shit, it’s probably right where you left it in your room.”

Charlie’s entire world goes blindingly white and then she says, “As your leader, I’ve decided you’re all going to leave me alone for forty eight fucking hours.”

“What?” Gilly says, popping up next to Ian. “Why?”

“Because you’re all morons and you’re driving me up a fucking wall,” Charlie says. “And-“ She trails off. “And I’ve got an album to write.”

“About?” Ian says.

“You’ll see,” Charlie says. She puts her boots up on the dashboard, and welcomes the quiet hum on the night.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charlie needs her music off her laptop. zari has a terrible job. another meeting ensues. and they're absolutely not getting along.

Charlie sulks into Big Electronics with her sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose and her shoulders hunched by her ears. She’s gone for a leather jacket a few sizes too big, her body successfully swallowed in the mass of it. 

She sidles up to the first, most tired looking sap she can find, her skinny legs sticking out under the too-long hem of her coat. “Hey,” she says, not really whispering but almost attempting to. “You. Where do I get this fixed?”

For a moment the guy just looks at her, concerned. It takes another beat for him to even notice the old laptop Charlie’s holding in front of him. “Is that held together with stickers?”

Charlie feels what she thinks might be a pang of embarrassment- It’s so hard to tell. She hasn’t felt shame in so long. She manages, “It’s bricked. I have songs on it. Who fixes computers here?”

She’s worked enough shit jobs to recognize the sort of apathy she’s being regarded with. It’s almost inspiring. Stick it to the man. “Nerd Team,” he says, tilting his head to the right.  


“That’s not nice,” Charlie says.

“That’s their name,” he says.

Charlie follows his gaze to the big red sign that reads “Nerd Team,” in the far reaches of the store. “Oh,” she says. “I’ve never been here in my life,” she continues, for an unasked clarification. “But you’re the only ones open on a Sunday.”

“Sure,” he replies, and Charlie takes that as her cue to vacate his line of sight.

Her newfound shame flourishes under the fluorescent lighting. The matter is absolutely urgent, life or death. Her praxis, maybe, would’ve dictated death before Big Electronics.

She can’t make songs without a computer, which is a horribly modern and capitalist thing, all of her music being squished into tiny little files and trapped in a big hunk of plastic and wires.

But that doesn’t change the reality of it, which is that she needs her music. Now. There’s a song she’d just gotten divine inspiration for, and it needs to be made, needs to be recorded and _heard._ Right now it’s just in her head, driving her up the fucking wall. Every time her mind twists around the thought of the chorus, the lyrics, Charlie can feel her stomach drop, just enough to know she’s onto something good.

So the only people it seems she can trust, the only good souls left in the world, are on the Nerd Team. The poor shits. She approaches the counter like someone might spring up from under it, though she catches sight of a swishy black ponytail bent over a computer. 

The Nerd, as Charlie presumes the title is, has their back turned, so Charlie takes a moment to set her laptop on the counter and steel herself. It’s for the music. It is for the music! She is a good, punk rock person, who selflessly is compromising her own time and effort to save her songs. Essentially, she’s a hero.

And then the person behind the counter turns around, and Charlie just says, “Oh. You’re here.”

 

The first reaction Zari seems to experience is contempt, and Charlie almost likes her natural aptitude for being pissed off. The sentiment, a little bit of a sneer mixed with a very dark and heavy gaze, poorly masked by Zari’s repeated attempts to put on her Customer Service Face. It’s watching her try to at least smile and failing, staring at the neutral pink lipstick she’s wearing that animates her expression. It’s just a little odd to see that color on someone who looks better in black.

In the light it’s almost got a hint of iridescence, and as Zari tries to make words, the colors slightly shift. Charlie offers, “I-“

“We’re closed,” Zari says, in a swish of sudden intent. “Sorry. I’m just about to leave.”

Charlie looks at Zari, and then looks at the hours printed on the wall next to her, and then back at Zari. “I think you and I both know you’re stuck here.”

She watches Zari chew the inside of her cheek, possibly her tongue, imagines that Zari is literally biting down on any kind of insult that might not-so-accidentally slip out. “Yeah,” Zari grumbles. “I guess.”

Charlie only now remembers that she’s still got her disguise on, taking off her sunglasses and slipping them into her jacket pocket. She unzips the coat, taking a breath as the air hits her. She runs her hand over her chest, just brushing the hem of her tank top. “It’s too warm,” she decides. 

“Then don’t wear a big coat in the spring,” Zari says. 

“Is that free advice, or am I paying you for your time?” Charlie asks. She shrugs the coat off her shoulders, holding it on her elbows.

“I can’t-“ Zari licks her bottom lip, eying the security camera over Charlie’s left shoulder. “I can’t respond to any of your witticisms, ma’am. I’m on the clock.”

“Ooh,” Charlie says. “Ma’am. That’s very formal.” She leans onto the counter. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. Charlie’s fine-“ And she makes a show of looking at Zari’s name tag, and then back at her face. “Princess.”

Zari pulls her lips closed, frowning violently for only an instant. “Just let me know how I can help you,” Zari says. “So we can get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

Charlie gives her a half grin, nodding at the statement. “Right,” Charlie says. She drums her fingers on the counter before deciding to smack her hand down, standing up to her full height and sliding the laptop towards Zari. “Shit’s broken.”

Zari stares down at Charlie’s nails and the chipped black paint, and when she sighs her ponytail bounces in despair. “How?”

“What do you mean, how?” Charlie asks. “It just is.”

“No,” Zari says, brushing Charlie’s own hand off her computer like she owns the place, just opening it like it’s nothing. “I mean, what happened before it bricked? How did you get here?”

“So this is what you do,” Charlie says, to the little strands of hair that didn’t make it into the ponytail. “Computers.”

Zari taps the power button to no avail. She looks at the keyboard, and not at Charlie. “I guess,” she says.

“Gotta pay your debt to society,” Charlie says.

“Student loans,” Zari corrects.

“Ah,” Charlie says, finding the smalltalk already stale in her mouth.

“Charlie,” Zari says, looking up at her, leaned over her computer. “Just tell me how you broke it so I know what to do.”

“Well,” Charlie says. It’s not that she’s embarrassed to tell Zari, or anything, it’s just that Zari clearly thinks she’s so much smarter than Charlie is, and she’s going to be so smug about this whole thing. Once she gets over Charlie stumbling into her place of work. “It was already mostly broken. Before this. It was on it’s way out.”

She can almost, almost catch Zari’s quick flicker of amusement. She’s partly thrilled that Zari finds her kind of funny, and partly annoyed for the same reason. “Of course,” Zari says.

“You get smug so quickly,” Charlie says. “How do you do it?”

“You make it very easy,” Zari says. She half-smiles to herself, and says, “So let me guess. You dropped it.”

“I didn’t drop it,” Charlie says, weighing out her options as she finishes her ‘it.’ “I was charging it, and I got up to take a piss, and I tripped on the cord and the thing _fell_.”

“That’s the same as dropping it,” Zari says.

“I disagree,” Charlie says. “Dropping implies that I meant it, whereas falling is far more accidental.”

Zari holds her finger under her lower lip for a moment, giving Charlie a look. “Okay,” Zari says, nodding. “Yeah, I figured it out.”

“Oh, good!” Charlie says. “Fix it!”

“No, not that,” Zari says, putting her hand down. “Your accent doesn’t make you sound smarter. It’s just kind of funny.”

“Piss off,” Charlie says. “You’d be lucky to have an accent like this.”

Zari responds with a shrug, turning away from Charlie to get something from her cache of Nerd Drawers. 

“Have you been thinking about my accent for some time, then?” Charlie says. “Spent a full… What? Two weeks? Trying to figure me out?”

“I’d prefer not to think about you at all,” Zari says, returning to the counter with a charging cable. “And you could make that a lot easier for me by being quiet.”

“And miss our back and forth?” Charlie says. “Tell me, Z. Did you try to wash the marker off?”

“No point,” Zari says, finally getting the power light to turn on. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the paint.” She looks at the light, and back at the screen, frowning. “So where’d you leave yours?”

That earns Zari a beat of quiet, Charlie pursing her lips at the sheer indignity of it. “I didn’t.”

“So you got a new one?” Zari asks. “And didn’t demand any money for it?”

“That-“ Charlie pauses. “That would be something I’d do.”

“So where did you leave it?” Zari repeats. The light’s out again, and Zari hasn’t even noticed. 

The eye contact is unexpected but not unwanted. Sort of intense, needlessly so. “My bandmate didn’t pack it.”

“Wow,” Zari says. She smiles like she doesn’t mean to, pretty and kind of funny. “You’re an idiot.”

“So I’ve heard,” Charlie says.

“Listen,” Zari says. She returns her focus to the task at hand, brow temporarily creased in frustration. “This thing is…” She considers it, tilting her head. “It’s fucked. Where did you even get a computer like this?”

“A wizard,” Charlie says. 

Zari puts her palm down next to the computer, locking her arm as she looks to the ceiling for some kind of guidance. “Charlie,” she says. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know the full story.”

“I’m giving you the full story!” Charlie says. “I know a guy! He calls himself a wizard! Or a witch. Warlock, maybe? But that’s his thing. His bit.”

“And he just… had a shitty laptop to give you?” Zari asks.

“Well,” Charlie says. “He does like me.”

Zari opens and closes her mouth, opting instead to press her tongue to the back of her teeth. “Sure.”

“But I’m not even sure if he’s stateside right now,” Charlie says. “Or alive, actually. Probably should look into that-“

Zari ignores her, opting to force the computer to power on. She’s greeted by the telltale signs of a broken screen, static and black with fractures. “Shit.”

“That’s-“ Charlie looks at it. “That’s bad, right?”

“I’m really proud of you,” Zari says. “You got there all by yourself.”

“Do I have to get your manager, Miss Princess?” Charlie asks. “I hardly consider this customer service.”

The nickname fails to land the same reaction, the little quirk of discontent. Zari makes a small noise that could almost be acceptance. “I’m the only one in today,” Zari says. “But you are _more_ than welcome to call our help line.”

“I’d sooner die,” Charlie says.

“Figured,” Zari says. “I don’t even know if they _make_ screens for this model anymore. It’s practically an antique.”

“I liked her,” Charlie says. “She was a trooper.”

“I genuinely don’t know how you produced music on this thing,” Zari says. “How often did it crash?”

“Constantly,” Charlie admits. “But we managed!”

“You need a new computer,” Zari says. “We have some inexpensive-“

“Nope,” Charlie says. “Absolutely not. I’m not giving this sludge pit of corporate-“

“Got it,” Zari says. “What do you need off this thing, anyway?”

“My songs are trapped on there,” Charlie says. “New material. Next EP in the works.” 

“And you don’t… back up your hard drive?” Zari asks.

“I don’t what?” Charlie says.

“I-“ Zari stops herself. “Okay, look. I can probably get everything off your hard drive. And I’d tell you to put it on your next computer, but-“ Her lower lip ticks, enough to show a sign of concern. “I’d hate to imagine what excuse for a computer you’d dig up next.”

“I happen to be an excellent haggler,” Charlie says. “I’ll have a new computer in no time.”

“For where?” Zari asks.

“Dunno yet,” Charlie says. “That’s the fun part. Game of poker, a kind soul, if you just turned the cameras off for me for like, ninety seconds-“ 

“Okay-” Zari interrupts. “I might be so sleep-deprived I’m taking pity on you, or like, maybe I’m just afraid to think of what you might do to this planet if you can’t waste your time attempting to make music.”

“Oh what’s one little, major, gigantic act of anarchy here and there?” Charlie says. “I have to be me.”

“My bassist,” Zari continues, ignoring the way Charlie had taken the trouble to bat her eyelashes, and everything. “Ray. He’s really good with hardware. He refurbishes shit all the time and for some reason, he thought you were funny.”

“He has taste,” Charlie says.

“If you pay Ray for the parts and me for the labor and your new software, I’ll get you a new computer,” Zari says. “But don’t tell corporate.”

“Zari Death Kitten,” Charlie says, her voice betraying her own excitement. “Are you going behind The Man’s back? For me?”

“That’s not-“ Zari nods. “Sure. That’s what I’m doing. You got me. I love bad music if the singer’s hot.”

“Oh,” Charlie says. “I’m hot?”

Zari puts her hand over her mouth, pulling it over her lips. “Shut up,” she says. She takes to tapping her finger against the s key, like it’ll do something. “I- If I can’t save everything, what’s priority? What’s your new music stored under?”

  

“My-“ Charlie feels the entire world behind her come to a screeching halt. Shame is back, it had been back and then left and now it’s back again. “My new music?”

“Is there…” Zari studies Charlie’s expression. “Something bad on your hard drive?”

There is nothing “bad,” so to speak, nothing worth getting upset over. Except for one, small, terrible little folder. All her new music is stored in a little folder called, “Z is the Way.” 

It’s a working title. Not a great one, but a decent enough placeholder. For an EP. Full of songs. About Zari. 

And sure, they’d only had one meeting, before today. Charlie had just found their encounter particularly inspiring, is all. Like, four-ish songs worth. And most of them are pretty much rubbish, anyway, that’s all part of the process, but if Zari were to, by any chance, open a song, maybe just to make sure the file’s right… Well. That would be shit.

“It’s uh,” Charlie says. “It’s just all the… documents. For Music Studio. Those are what I need.”

“Any particular albums or tracks I should look for?” Zari says.

“I mean, my new uh, my new shit is under Z is the uh, Way,” Charlie says. “It’s a working title. The Z is just… a fun letter.”

“I’ve always felt that way, yeah,” Zari says.

“But I’ll level with you,” Charlie says. “It’s very… new. I’d hate for you to hear it and, you know. Get smug about how bad you think my music is. It’s not the full picture.”

“I’m already smug about how bad I think your music is,” Zari says.

“Listen,” Charlie says, almost desperate enough to plead. “It’s like a diary. Until I turn it into a book, it’s private. So keep it private. Client-attorney privilege.”

“That’s not even remotely-“ Zari swallows, and decides to answer with a shrug. “Sure. I’ll move that first, but if the audio’s messed up-“

“Hey, shit happens,” Charlie says. “I uh… appreciate this, actually. If I didn’t know better,” she smiles. “I’d think you liked more than just my good looks.”

“Like I said,” Zari says. “You’re a menace to society, but at least you usually only torment people with your guitar.”

“That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Charlie says. “Outstanding.”

“You are so- You’re-“ Zari licks her bottom lip. “Give me your number.”

“That’s a bit fast,” Charlie says.

“I need to contact you about transferring your shitty music from your shitty computer,” Zari says, deadpan enough that Charlie finds it charming. “I’m not looking to talk to you otherwise.”

“And you’re such a conversationalist already,” Charlie says. “Give me your hand.”

“Don’t write it on my palm, dumbass, we’re at a Big Electronics,” Zari says. “Give me your phone.”

“Oh, sure,” Charlie says, and Zari only sighs a little bit when she sees that the phone’s screen has spiderwebs of cracks. 

“Of course,” Zari says, Charlie passing her the phone. “You know, I could-“

“It’s just a phone,” Charlie says. “It’s artistic.” 

“You’re a wreck,” Zari says. “Okay. Text me and I’ll add you.”

Charlie pulls up where Zari has very clearly typed, “Zari Tomaz,” and says “Aw, that’s no fun.” She bites her lip as she thinks about it, erasing the name and typing, “Cute Metalhead.”

“I’m cute?” Zari says, and Charlie knows she’s being mocked.

“Well, if we’re giving out compliments,” Charlie says. “You did say I was the most attractive person you’d ever seen, and nothing compared to me.”

“Charlie, you are such a fuck,” Zari says, the strain in her voice poorly cloaking unmistakable fondness.

Charlie types out five skull emojis and sends them to Zari’s number.

“Got you,” Zari says, pulling out her phone. “And if you think you’re so funny-“ She types faster on a phone screen than Charlie ever thought possible, lightning fast with her fingers. Zari turns her screen towards Charlie, only to show her contact name.

“Fucking Charlie,” Charlie reads aloud. She grins. “I am what I am.”

“It’s not a compliment,” Zari says. “I don’t like you.”

“Course not,” Charlie says. “But thanks for this anyway.”

A silence as Zari considers her next option. “Get out of my store,” she decides, making sure Charlie knows there’s no sentiment, here. Charlie appreciates it. Zari’s got a stubborness that’s incredibly appealing. Or would be. If Zari could be appealing. Zari nods, crossing her arms. “You’re bad for business.”

“Well, it’s not your store,” Charlie says. “You’re just a cog in a horrible machine.”

“Where do you work?” Zari asks.

Charlie nips at her tongue. “Sam’s Guitars.”

“Oh, you mean the chain?” Zari says.

“Hey,” Charlie says. “At least you play better than the fucks that come in and try out the merchandise.”

“Wow,” Zari says. “That’s so kind of you.”

“Marginally better,” Charlie says. “Not much.”

“Well, I guess I owe you one,” Zari says, glancing down at her phone screen. 

“You’re fixing my computer,” Charlie says.

“No, I mean, I should come bother you at work,” Zari says. “Really looking forward to your quality customer service.”

Charlie thinks _fuck off_ , and she thinks _you’re a brat,_ but what comes out first is, “Sounds like a date.”

Zari rolls her eyes. “Get out,” she says, waving Charlie off. “I have actual shit to do.”

“Oh, I’d hate to keep you from the electronics industry,” Charlie says. She slips on her jacket and grabs her glasses, putting them right back on her face. “I’ll be seeing you, Z.”

“Bye,” Zari offers, with a twist of her mouth that is urgent and sarcastic. And yeah. Cute.

 

Charlie almost makes it to the front door before her phone buzzes.

TEXT FROM: CUTE METALHEAD

TO: ME

i FINALLY turned your computer on and it’s just playing a skipped guitar riff?? im gonna fling it like a frisbee disk. screen’s still shit

 

Charlie smiles to herself, gliding out the front door without so much as a hitch. 

TEXT FROM: ME

TO: CUTE METALHEAD

no texting at work!!!!

 

She gets a middle finger emoji back. Perfect. “Zari Death Kitten,” Charlie murmurs. Metal guitarist, IT gal, apparently very fluent in the shoplifting arts. “Zari Tomaz,” Charlie says, trying out the last name on her tongue. “Zari Tomaz.”

She’s too hot in this jacket to stay any longer. And she should probably get the car back before one of her bandmates had an evening shift.

Zari’s kind of funny. In her own way. Almost interesting.

Wait.

 

TEXT FROM: ME

TO: CUTE METALHEAD

WHAT SONG IS IT

 

TEXT FROM: CUTE METALHEAD

TO: ME

relax its just like when you drop a cd player or some shit i cant tell what the fuck it is

 

TEXT FROM: ME

TO: CUTE METALHEAD

cool. i’m fine

 

TEXT FROM: CUTE METALHEAD

TO: ME

okay loser

 

The expression Charlie makes, the feeling she gets, is beyond her control. It’s the beginning of another piece, and she doesn’t have her piece of shit computer.

But she can do things the old fashioned way. Dec’s got a tape recorder, somewhere.

Tomaz. That’s practically the name of a song.


End file.
